


all ceilings, all skies

by neonsign



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Childhood Friends, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-01-15 12:44:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12321333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonsign/pseuds/neonsign
Summary: Supposedly there was no such thing as silence in the city years ago. Too many people, too many working cars, buses, trains. But now, the way the isolation and snow wrap them in a world all their own, Akira’s voice tickles his ear.





	1. Chapter 1

The first snow of the season crunches beneath Goro’s boots, visible breath curls from his lips, and he buttons his coat to hide his father’s blood. His split lip stings when he smiles at the armed man and woman waiting for him, his bruised rib aches with every breath, yet he walks with his head held high. He stops over ten feet away.

“We must be traveling in the same direction,” he says. “I’ve noticed you following me for a while now.”

The woman’s eyes flick over Goro’s shoulder, searching the deserted street. The only thing to see is his footprints coming from one of the buildings where he set up camp. A place that would be easy to ambush. He shifts his weight to one leg, moving himself back into her line of sight, and the small weight of his holstered handgun presses gently against his ribs.

“There’s safety in numbers,” he continues, “but I’m afraid I’m not interested in any company. I’m... sure you heard my argument with the guy I was traveling with.” Goro’s smile fades to a look of regret. “I’d rather travel on my own… so I’m sorry, but—”

“You really are a little prince,” the woman sneers.

Facade freezes over with the rest of the world and Goro shuts his mouth. The man stares back without really seeing, eyes glazed over and shoulders stiff, but the woman places a hand on her gun and steps closer. She doesn’t even bother unholstering it. That’s the kind of confidence offered by outnumbering someone, after all.

“This your first time leaving your ivory tower?” She taps beneath her eye to indicate his blackened one. “That’s just the beginning of what can happen to you out here.”

“I’m aware, thank you,” Goro mutters, letting his voice deepen out of its honeyed tones. Under the pretense of shifting his weight to his other leg, he moves a step to the right. “I just thought I’d give you a chance before you get yourself killed.”

The woman lets out a single laugh, loud and harsh. “That’s some arrogance. You’re not going against some helpless old man this time.”

Goro clenches his jaw.

“And you even chased away your bodyguard,” she continues. “Maybe you should come with us? We’ll get you back home, nice and safe.”

Goro takes a deep breath and tries to still his racing heart, his trembling hands. This isn’t fear, but adrenaline; the other man’s hollow stare, his stiff shoulders — _that’s_ fear. He’s cowering under the woman’s shadow, hoping she’ll take care of everything. As if this could ever be resolved peacefully.

“They won’t deliver on the bounty.” Goro turns his attention to the man and stares him in the eye. “You think they deal with people like you? They’ll take what they want, toss you aside, and there won’t be _anything_ you can do about it.”

The woman clicks her tongue. “Shut up. You’ve got a pretty big mouth, you know that?”

“It’s the easy way to get a foot in the door, right? One big break and you’ll have enough for a home behind the walls, safe and sound? If it sounds too good to be true—”

“I said, shut _up_!”

“Your only chance right now is to turn and walk away. But no sudden movements. There’s a—”

The woman jerks her arm. The shot tears through the city not one second later.

Labored breaths scrape against the silence that follows. She stumbles. Her companion stares at her with wide eyes and time slows as if the world is kind enough to wait for him to catch up. Taking advantage of the distraction, Goro slips a hand inside his jacket.

When the woman falls, the impact of her body shatters the still and brings the world back to the present. Fear escalates, entwines with rage, and the man moves with a roar. Goro moves faster. The weight of the pistol is familiar, the kickback slamming twice into his palms an old pain, and the sound of a second body crumpling a pathetic end.

A long, slow breath out and Goro closes his eyes, then holsters his gun. It takes two tries. His hands won’t work.

He glances over his shoulder. The street is deserted. A frigid breeze weaves between what remains of a couple stripped cars and presses against the broken shop windows, trailing snow with it, but nothing else moves.

When he moves to kneel down, only then is he reminded of his bruised rib. Underneath the rush of adrenaline it’s a dull but persistent pain, one that reaches deep until he can feel it in the back of his teeth. Whispering curses as if they’re soothing spells, he places a hand against his side and gingerly crouches.

The man’s body is still warm, of course, even though his cold clothes. Inside his pockets are just useless, everyday things. A pencil, lighter, a tab from a can of pop, wrinkled paper covered in stupid doodles, and Goro’s hands come away stained with blood.

He takes the lighter for himself and wipes his fingers clean on his jeans.

Footsteps sound behind him and a shadow falls over him and the bodies.

“You’re really are quite the shot,” Goro says.

Akira walks past without a word. The scoped rifle slung over his shoulder clinks against the metal fasteners on his rucksack as he crouches down on the other side of the bodies. With shaking hands — from the cold, from the adrenaline, from something far softer — he starts going through the woman’s pockets.

The first thing he finds is a cigarette tin, which he holds out, but Goro only looks from him to the tin and back again. There’s no smile on Akira’s face but the glint in his eye says he finds that amusing.

“Did you think I forgot?”

After a pause that fools neither of them, Goro holds out his hand and allows him to place the tin against his palm. Only then does Akira smile.

The cigarettes inside are all hand-rolled. There’s no point in imagining the woman sitting down and taking the time to roll each one, laughing with her friend about how yeah, she’s quitting, she swears, so Goro shoves the tin in his pocket and goes back to looking for anything useful. The gun lays beside the man’s curled fingers, so he grabs that.

“Are you alright?”

Occupied with checking the magazine, it takes a moment for Goro to register the question. When he lifts his head, Akira’s just sitting there with his elbows on his knees, no expression on his dull face.

Heat seeps into Goro’s core. His skin itches like it’s too small, like he needs to claw it off.  

He laughs, gently, as he slams the magazine back in place.

“Please. Whatever they call me, I’m hardly some sheltered prince. I can handle this much.”

Akira toys with his hair, his brows drawing together while he processes the words, and when he finally does, he sighs and looks to the side as if suppressing an eyeroll. “Relax, I didn’t — I meant your side. Looked like it was bothering you.”

Goro blinks.

“I’m fine,” comes out too quick to be natural. A pause, then he smiles. “It’s getting better. Thank you.”

Akira nods and turns his attention back to the woman. If nothing else, he has the grace to leave it at that, but the sincerity of the moment leaves a silence neither knows how to fill.

Goro glances around, looks anywhere but at Akira. One of the few shop windows left unbroken reflects them like some kind of picture; his image stares back, reduced to vague details like the halo of sunlight on his hair and the shadow of the gun in his hand. A faded sign above says it was a dance studio, years ago. The silhouette of a ballerina still clings to the backboard, peeling at the edges.

An intrigued _oh_ pops whatever bubble he nearly lost himself in.

Under her jacket, the woman wears a shoulder holster; to her side is strapped a Bowie knife. With no ceremony Akira unbuckles the holster and sheds his jacket to take it for his own.

“That’s what you need,” Goro says. “Another knife.”

Akira grins and takes his time to fit the holster comfortably. He pulls his coat back on, zips it up, shrugs on his rucksack. Just moving at his own pace, always moving at his own pace. Goro’s eyes trail to the bodies between them, to the hole in the woman’s chest that had opened up the split second she made her move, then back up to Akira’s face just in time to see him scrunch his nose with a sniffle.

“So...” With all the respect and caution the weapon demands, Akira picks up his rifle and slips the strap over his shoulder. There’s that gentle sound of metal meeting metal again. “About what you said during our little argument. I’m gonna assume it was for the benefit of the audience.”

Goro rests his chin on his free hand. “You’ll have to clarify. I said a lot of things.”

“You sure did. I don’t think it was necessary to come for my dick like that.”

Goro’s eyes widen. As hard as he tries to smother it, a smile tugs at his lips so he turns his head and presses his mouth to his palm, swallowing hard and clenching his jaw like forcing down medicine.

“Pretty immature, Goro,” Akira deadpans. “I’m at least average.”

“We should get going,” Goro says lightly as he gets to his feet, “before any Shadows find us. Or more bounty hunters. Or Shido’s men. Take your pick.”

He offers a hand. Akira squints playfully before accepting it and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. While he’s bent double to brush the snow off his knees, Goro purses his lips and lets his eyes roll back at the pain in his side, returning to normal before Akira can see him.

“Anyway…” Goro sighs, “as I was saying before we were rudely interrupted: the snow is going to make it easy for us to be tracked.”

“Probably.”

Goro waits for more, a contingency plan or something, but Akira apparently doesn’t have any intention of continuing.

“So,” he prompts, “when we get to Crossroads…”

“We can finally shower.”

Goro laughs and entertains thoughts of punching him in the head. “That’ll be nice. But what I meant is that harboring me endangers the people living there.”

“They can handle themselves.”

“Oh, I wasn’t doubting them. Far from it. This world breeds tough people, after all, especially those surviving outside Shido’s walls. And the fact of survival is that your own needs come before anyone else’s.”

Akira doesn’t respond right away and it’s clear the meaning isn’t lost on him — even he isn’t that stupid. Hard to play ignorant with bodies at their feet.

“They’re not like that,” he insists eventually.

“You trust them that much?”

Akira hums and slides a thumb under his rifle’s twisted strap.

“More like… they owe me.”

Words delivered lightly and easily, but they settle with a weight. Akira zips his coat all the way  up and tucks his chin behind the collar, watching Goro through his lashes. The cold colours his cheeks pink; paired with his wild head of hair, he might look almost cherubic — except for those eyes.

Sunlight and snow bleach the world. The contrast burns Akira’s eyes black.

Goro turns from the sight.

“You haven’t changed at all.”

Nostalgia picks the strangest things to cling to. Inane details like a reckless boy’s dark eyes, close enough to swallow the world, as if that’s the most important part of a first kiss. Or a final parting.

“Honor among thieves,” Akira says, and Goro nearly bites his tongue clean off.

Instead, he smiles.

“How comforting to know such relationships are possible, even with the world like this.”

“ _Because_ the world is like this. Give and take. The lone wolf act only gets you killed.”

A cloud moves over the sun and somewhere in the distance, a bird sings out. Nothing answers.

“Hard to lose your place these days,” Akira continues as calmly as ever, “but regicide works. Destroying this country’s chance at restoring order. Your only chance now is to find people who never wanted what Shido offered in the first place. All anyone at Crossroads is gonna want is to buy you a drink.”

“Hm…” Goro tucks his hair behind his ear, letting his hand trail to the back of his neck to squeeze tight. The tension in his muscles still persists, so he lets his hand drop before the urge to dig in his nails wins out. “And what do you want, Akira?”

When the blood staining Goro’s shirt was fresh, cold and sticking to his chest, and he fled as fast as he could through the streets behind Shido’s walls, a hand had reached out and pulled him into the shadows of an alley. Black eyes he hadn’t seen in years greeted him, until Akira pulled off his gasmask and grinned wide.

And now, lifting his chin free from his jacket’s collar, he looks much the same even with the absence of a smile.

“Can’t I just want to see you again?”

Supposedly there was no such thing as silence in the city years ago. Too many people, too many working cars, buses, trains. But now, the way the isolation and snow wrap them in a world all their own, Akira’s voice tickles his ear. The cold, the adrenaline, or something far softer — but a shiver runs up Goro’s spine.

Nothing but a benign smile shows on his face as he tilts his head.

“Then I guess I should count my blessings,” he says. “To be supported by such like-minded people, you and I being reunited after all this time, at such a crucial moment — it all feels like fate, doesn’t it? After you were exiled, I never thought I would see you again… but here we are.”

A little smirk plays at the side of Akira’s mouth, barely reaching his eyes until something catches his attention over Goro’s shoulder and it disappears altogether.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs. “Someone’s watching us.”

Goro adjusts his gloves and sighs. “Shido’s men wouldn’t be seen.”

“Might be someone come to clean up the bodies. Probably heard the gunshots and—” Akira shakes his head, staring without blinking. “We should go. Crossroads isn’t far; we can make it before sundown if we hurry.”

“Then lead the way.”


	2. Chapter 2

Lala thinks she knows something. While Goro takes a shower, Akira heads down to the bar and finds her squinting contentedly like a cat basking in sunlight. And he smiles back because what she thinks she knows won’t hurt her.

He slides onto a stool furthest away from the other customers as Ann comes out of the back room, her strapless dress and curled hair clashing with the way she hefts a heavy wooden crate on her hip. The glass bottles within rattle when she places it on the counter. A logo burned on the side marks it as sake from the brewery on the outskirts of the city.

“You’re back early,” she says. “Get me anything good?”

Akira leans his elbows against the counter and shakes his head. “Change of plans. Next time, though.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Lala clicks her tongue, to which Akira rests his chin on his hand and smiles as sweetly as possible. The front door opens and Ohya walks in with pink cheeks and exaggerated shivers, giving Lala has no choice but to serve her and leave Akira and Ann alone with one final look.

“She just worries for you,” Ann grins. “Anyway, Ryuji left this for you. Here.”

She reaches beneath the counter and comes back with a handmade paper envelope. Akira barely catches sight of his name in smudged ink before shoving it in his pocket.

“Thanks,” is all he says. The pitying look it gets makes his skin crawl.

“He said they seem well,” Ann reassures, but it would be nice if she wouldn’t.

If Akira hadn’t been so quick to hide the envelope then he’d have something to do with his hands while he avoids her eyes, but now all he can do is crack his knuckles and let the din of the bar fill the space between each joint popping one by one.

Stay silent long enough and people come to their own conclusions. Ann’s makes her sigh.

“Whatever. Ryuji left for another job this morning, but…” She starts putting the sake bottles on the shelves below the bar. “He says there’s something he wants to talk to you about when he gets back, about the stolen routes. Won’t be for a week or so though; apparently Okumura’s got him headed pretty far west.”

“Did he learn something?”

“Guess so. He wouldn’t say, just said to let you know.” Ann pauses. She grips the edge of the counter and leans in to squint suspiciously. “Do _you_ know anything?”

Akira shakes his head. All he knows is what she knows — that courier routes keep getting taken over and every time Ryuji tries looking into it, he gets a different name. Ann squints, scrutinizing Akira’s face for a tell, then eases back when she doesn’t find anything.

“Weird. Usually we can’t get him to shut up. Speaking of — Yusuke said he’s gonna drop by when my shift ends.” She holds up a bottle. “You in? Or is your ‘change of plans’ gonna keep you busy?”

“Is… today a special occasion?”

“What? No? Not that I know of. We’re just hanging out.”

“Oh.”

Akira drums his fingers against the counter as he watches the other patrons. No one looks back; they’re all wrapped up in each other. The music from the sound system mixes with their conversations, neither loud on their own but together mixing into a din that always seems to separate this place from the rest of the world.

There’s a kind of freedom in being surrounded by people but not interacting with them, becoming nothing more than how you choose to present yourself. An image they’ll keep in their head or maybe forget entirely. He likes it.

But it won’t last. The threads are starting to weave themselves into a tapestry.

“You don’t have to,” Ann says at the lack of an immediate response. Disappointment and irritation colour every word. “You’re probably tired.”

In a tiny settlement like this, tapestries are hung for everyone to see.

“It’s fine,” Akira mutters. “I’m up for it.”

“Nice!” Ann beams and Akira starts wondering if he’s like every guy she can always convince to get another round. “Feels like it’s been a long time since we hung out; you’re always busy.”

“I got a lot of important work.”

“Modern day Jirokichi.” They turn to see Lala walking towards them cradling a tokkuri in her hands. Ann fetches two cups from below and she pours them each a drink. “Better watch your head, sweetheart. Exile was a kindness compared to what Shido could have done. What they still could do.”

There’s a lot to say but Akira keeps every word to himself and hides his face in his cup. The sake’s warmth flows through him, melting a chill that had him carrying tension in his back. He rolls his shoulder and sighs, listening to Ann distract Lala by taking the conversation somewhere else. Someone isn’t paying their tab, she says. That new bartender is a pain in the ass, she says. Regular stuff. A familiar scene.

Akira rolls his shoulder again. The shot from earlier still thrums through him, all the way down to the tips of his fingers.

They drink and talk for a while longer, until vibrations tickle Akira’s side and he pulls his phone out of his jacket, holding it up to show them why he’s excusing himself. A bracing chill envelopes him as soon as he exits the bar, sharp and fresh compared to the warmth inside.

The voice that greets him is barely audible through static. “What are you doing? Drinking? Uhh, don’t you have a more pressing issue? You found him, right? Akechi isn’t with you — did something happen? My connection’s patchy with all this snow, I can’t—”

“It’s fine, Futaba. He’s at my place.”

She lets out a lengthy sigh that turns into a groan at the end, so loud combined with the static that Akira has to hold the phone away from his ear until she stops. “This is messed up! When you said you wanted eyes on Shido, I wasn’t — did you know this was gonna happen? Because I don’t wanna see any more people die, Akira.”

“I know, I didn’t — I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Akira scrapes his boot along the snow as he walks, digging to the concrete below. “Goro never really has been much of a team player.”

“Pff. Yeah, kinda puts a wrench in your plans, huh?”

“Sort of, I guess.”

Muffled voices catch his attention and he looks up to see a couple walking towards him, both wearing gas masks. He can’t help but watch over his shoulder as they pass; Crossroads’ pink neon frames them against the snow in a way that looks almost sinister, even as they talk about what to do for dinner.

Their numbers dwindle year by year but there are still those paranoid enough to wear masks outside. The disease was never airborne in the first place but people would rather believe in spores over the word of whatever small-time practitioners are left. At the very least, they provide a good excuse for Akira to hide his face when needed.

“That aside,” he says slowly, turning his attention back to the street ahead, “I owe you for letting me know Goro — y’know. Needed help.”

“Add it to the tab.”

Akira forces a laugh as he reaches his building. His boots clunk against the stairs leading up the side and he drags his free hand against the symbols carved into the wall. “I’d rather not. Is there anything you want? I can get those transmitters set up.”

“You’re supposed to do that anyway.”

“Yeah, but now I’ll do it sooner.”

“Wow, Akira, thanks.”

Akira unlocks his apartment door and pushes it open. Down the hall, Goro stands in the middle of the main room. Just stands there. Smiling politely. Akira doesn’t return it but steps inside and glances around.

“I gotta go,” he tells Futaba. “I’ll let you know when I get it done.”

“They say there are no phones outside Chiyoda,” Goro says conversationally, watching Akira undo his boots. His hair hangs damp and he’s wearing Akira’s clothes as discussed when they first got here. The scent of Akira’s shampoo hangs in the air when he passes by, too.

“They say a lot of things.”

“Yeah. They’d have us believe life out here is all barbarians bashing each other with sticks. But that’s clearly not the case. This is a nice place you’ve got.”

Akira heads for the kitchen and leans against the counter.

The boy watching him in turn is the same boy ‘they’ used to advertise as proof the system works. The Prince’s is a heartwarming story of hard work and success, of a poor child climbing his way to with top with only the clothes on his back and the burning hope of being reunited with his father, who was torn from him because of the cruel world outside Chiyoda’s walls. Keeping his mother’s name to honor her memory. Often seen playing with some bottom-rung kid like an act of charity. A real saint.

And now he tilts his head. His smile, curious. Searching for answers like he was searching through Akira’s things a moment before that door opened.

“It’s not mine. There’s an honor system,” Akira tells him. This building is one of the few hooked up to the solar generators, one of the few with heat. Before moving on, people leave the apartment maintained for the next person to come along, just like he eventually will. They’re marked by carved symbols, like those in this building’s stairwell. Akira holds up his phone. “And this phone’s only a direct line. Like a walkie talkie.”

“Where did you get it? I don’t remember you having any interest in technology.”

“Met a girl that’s good with this kind of thing. It’s part of a deal we have. I’m her hands, she’s my eyes.”

“And… she’s how you knew what happened,” Goro deduces. He follows Akira into the kitchen and leans against the counter beside him. “But how did she get access to the palace’s security system?”

“Not all of Shido’s staff are loyal,” Akira says quietly to the floor, “as I’m sure you know.”

Goro stares and stares.

“Niijima,” he says. Then he lets out a tired laugh. “You still talk to her. Seems like you’ve got friends just as interesting as you are. But I guess that’s not a surprise — you always were surrounded by people, even years ago.”

‘Friends’ feels heavy but Akira lets it slide off his aching shoulders. When he returns his phone to his pocket, his fingers bump against the envelope and he pushes away from the counter. Thanks to the neon signs outside the window, the apartment is never fully dark; monochromatic pink illuminates his way around the mismatched furniture and to the bed in the far corner.

“Akira,” Goro calls after him, voice resounding through the sparse room, “what were you looking for?”

The long day and the sake combine to leave Akira suddenly exhausted, barely conscious enough to take the envelope out of his pocket and turn on the record player that sits on the bedside table. With the way the bed squeaks when Akira sits on the edge, he almost doesn’t hear Goro scoff.

“A record player? I didn’t think humanity had been set _that_ far back.”

It gets a little laugh, if not a response. Nothing but music floats between them as Akira slits the envelope with a Swiss army knife he pulled from his pocket.

The letter inside isn’t long. So much has already been said and nothing has changed, so there’s nothing new to add — though Akira does find himself dragging his thumb over the birthday wishes. There are indents where his mother pressed too hard. Too eager. The paper itself is pulpy and imperfect but it’s still leagues better than it was in the beginning.

After he folds the letter back up and sticks it inside the table drawer, Akira finds Goro watching him. No smile, no frown. Just watching.

Until he sighs and turns away.

“Where am I supposed to sleep? That couch looks like an invitation for Lyme disease.”

“Wherever.”

A pause. Then the mattress bounces as Goro plops down beside him, close enough that their arms touch.

“Then I suppose I have no choice,” he teases. Smug for some reason — but not as smug as Akira, who lays back against the pillow knowing full well that Goro will either have to climb over him to get to the other side or admit defeat, get up, and walk around.

These little games are nostalgic, at least.

The music plays on and Goro sits at Akira’s hip, spine rigid as he tucks his hair behind his ear — just as likely a sign of a embarrassment as it is ingrained elegance.

“You routinely sneak back into Chiyoda, even after your exile,” he muses aloud. “Have you seen your parents since? Or do you just write letters?” He glances over his shoulder, smiling when he sees whatever tell is on Akira’s face. “Thought so. Your dad’s still into papermaking?”

“Haven’t seen them,” Akira mutters, picking idly at the hem of his shirt. “Don’t wanna get them in trouble if I get caught.”

The doubt on Goro’s face says all it needs to. And he keeps that eye contact as he turns around, slowly climbing over to his side of the bed. A hand beside his shoulder, a knee at his hip, and Akira nearly stops breathing — and then Goro’s lying down, back facing him as he curls into a ball on the very edge of the mattress.

None of that initial cockiness exists in the way he wraps his arms around himself. An easy mark for teasing but there’s no way to be sure Akira’s voice will work, so he keeps his mouth firmly shut and stares at the ceiling. At the space Goro’s face had been.

One song later and Goro’s the one to break the silence.

“You never answered my question: what were you looking for? And why? Is this all coincidence or should I be creeped out? Because it’s not flattering, I’m sorry to say.”

Akira rolls his eyes and idly traces designs over his stomach. The tension in his chest eases, if only a little. “It wasn’t about you, so don’t get a big head.”

“Revenge, then?”

“You are just full of questions, aren’t you?”

Akira sighs and rolls to face the wall. Pink from the neon light, bare from the necessity of transience. The record player — _his_ record player that he won’t be able to keep once he leaves — plays on.

“I guess,” he mumbles, so quiet that the silence between songs is the only reason it was heard. “I wasn’t gonna kill the guy or anything, I just… if I could steal something important, rub it in his ugly fucking face, let him know he wasn’t untouchable… better than sitting on my ass, right?”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Goro states. Comforting or not, it’s the truth regardless; anything Akira could have done would have been nothing but petty self-satisfaction. A twig snapped in the cogs of a machine rather than jamming its process. “The only thing Shido gave a shit about is power, his little empire. At least now he has less than nothing.”

Would that he could suffer through it.

The light on the wall flickers and somewhere above them a tenant walks with heavy steps. Memories play over and over, things Akira hasn’t thought about in years, like when Goro first made his way into Chiyoda. The moments before he reconnected with Shido and they were just two kids at the bottom of the food chain. Another song passes with the two of them laying back-to-back, no part of them touching. Then Akira takes a breath.

“My turn,” he says. “Did you ever look for me?”

Silence, silence, silence, and he knows the answer before he gets it.

“No.”

Akira closes his eyes.

People outside — drunks from the bar, probably — jeer loud enough that they can be heard over the music, even three storeys up. Sleep won’t come for a long time but the will to get up just isn’t there. Clean his rifle, make lockpicks. There is always something to do. Packing, maybe. Crossroads is starting to feel too homey and the scent of dust and stagnation is starting to call for a change of scenery. Back to Yongen-Jaya or maybe somewhere new. Somewhere he hasn’t been before. Threads in the tapestry still hang loose and all he wants to do is pull until the whole picture unravels.

“Akira.”

“What?”

The record ends.

“Happy birthday.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i took out the self-defense bit in ch2 and i'll probably end up taking out the person watching them in ch1. sorry that i don't know how to make a decision 
> 
> anyway pls enjoy

There is an unfamiliar man in Crossroads and the way he slouches forward only somewhat mars his air of elegance. The rest is taken by the way he burps into his fist.

“I have been for _sake_ n by the drink.”

Takamaki glares at him but Akira laughs, at least until he sees Goro lurking by the entrance and waves him over. The three sit in a booth towards the back with a bland breakfast of rice and soup before them. Considering how the bar looked last night when they first arrived in Shinjuku, it’s now oddly stark without all the neon and purple ceiling lights.

Goro steps closer, praying no one hears the way his stomach rumbles at the scent of food.

“Morning,” Takamaki croaks, pale and haggard. “Here.”

She pushes a couple empty bowls towards him and gestures towards the pots of food, which means they accounted for him when preparing. Though logical, it strikes him as odd.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any money,” he says.

Takamaki shakes her head, rubbing her temple. “If you feel that bad, you can do the dishes after.”

“Ah… then excuse me.”

Goro sits beside the stranger, who openly watches him through odd, downturned eyes. It’s to be expected. Akira introduced Goro to Takamaki and the woman that owns this place last night; his identity is hardly a secret and word will get around about what he did. When it does, staring will be the least of his concern but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.

Goro smiles. “Do I have something on my face?”

“This is Kitagawa Yusuke,” Akira says, as if it’s an explanation. Then the realisation hits and Goro raises his eyebrows.

“Madarame’s pupil?”

“I was,” Kitagawa corrects. He tilts his head. “I know you too, Akechi, we’ve met before. You don’t remember?”

“Sorry,” Goro admits with an embarrassed laugh. He starts to fill his bowl. “I remember hearing about you though.” About the rumors. “Chiyoda mourned Madarame’s passing, then again when you left shortly after. Few actually _choose_ to leave, let alone an artist with such a promising future.”

Kitagawa laughs — once, derisive and from the bottom of his gut.

“A future,” he scoffs. “Well… Chiyoda was stifling. Outside its walls is a country getting back on its feet — or rather growing anew — and it is an artist’s job to document. Without that look in the mirror, the only _future_ we have is an old world’s mistakes. The same ones Chiyoda now makes.”

Goro blinks, unsure of what to do with his face.

“That’s an interesting take on the most successful settlement in the country.”

Kitagawa chews his next bite slowly, gazing at Goro with what might be curiosity. Those eyes are every bit as dark and watchful as Akira’s but there’s a spacey quality to them, nebulous where Akira’s are sharp.

“You left too, did you not? In a manner of speaking. Perhaps we were both stifled.”

The comment barely sinks in before Kitagawa turns back to his food. Curiosity more than sated, Goro follows suit and finds the soup surprisingly more flavourful than it looks.

Honor among thieves indeed.

“Anyway, Akira, we missed you last night,” Takamaki says. Instead of answering, Akira shovels the rest of his rice into his mouth. “Thought you were gonna hang out with us.”

Goro catches Akira’s eye over the rim of his bowl. No one mentions any birthday and just as the possibility that they don’t know occurs, Akira shakes his head so that only Goro notices and all but confirms it.

“I ended up passing out,” is the excuse he goes for. “Next time for sure.”

Constants are supposed to be comforting. The world changes every day — _has_ changed in an irrevocable way — and people want something familiar to cling to so they don’t get lost. Just hours ago, Goro held a gun to his father’s head and pulled the trigger. Now he sits, warm and more or less safe, listening to the way Akira says whatever sweet words will get people off his back, just like he always used to.

People always look to him and he only stares back with a dull face.

Constants are the steady drip that wears away at the foundation. Constants are the furthest thing from a comfort.

The bar door opens and someone walks in. The coveralls and toolbelt he wears make him look even smaller than he is, like a child playing dress-up. The moment the boy’s eyes find Goro his face lights up into a playful grin.

“So this is the prince, huh?”

Again, Goro and Akira’s eyes meet and again there’s a silent understanding in the way Goro glares and Akira shrugs. Lala was a necessity because while Shinjuku has no official leader, many tend to look to her; Takamaki happened to be there when they were introduced but was promised to be trustworthy; Kitagawa recognized him. Word will get out but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t try to slow its progress.

The boy must notice the tense atmosphere because the grin turns into something smug. “I was working on the fridge in the back when I heard you talking to Lala and Ann, Akira. Not very stealthy for a thief. Be more careful next time.”

“Mona,” Akira coos.

He gets to his feet and reaches out. The way he pets the boy’s hair bends his neck this way and that — until he slaps his hand away. But Akira only laughs.

“Goro, this is Morgana. He won’t tell anyone. Probably.”

Morgana leans around him. “As long as you watch how much electricity you use. This isn’t your fancy palace and I’m the one that’s gotta keep everything running.”

Goro smiles and rests his chin on his fist.

“You help with the generators? What a nice hobby for a young boy to have.”

Akira snorts and tries to cover it with a cough. Before Morgana explodes, Akira reaches into his pocket and shoves its contents into his hands, distracting him from whatever he had been about to retort with.

“Here — meant to give this to you yesterday.”

Fine chains dangle from between Morgana’s fingers, tangled with a ring or two. The silver and gold gleams under the stark light and Goro instinctively knows it’s real. The jewelry gets unceremoniously shoved into Morgana’s coveralls and from what he says — something about a water heater in Isetan — it’s clear he intends to melt it down.

Akira catches Goro’s eye and grins.

There is no doubt they could find copper wiring for sale from any traveling merchant, or in abandoned buildings if they cared to look. This is just petty.

“Ah—” Kitagawa perks up, apparently not having paid attention for the last five minutes, “before I forget — Akira, I have a job for you.”

“Oh yeah?”

They make plans while Goro hurries to finish his breakfast, then collects the plates to wash, smiling when they thank him. He says something about how it’s the least he can do, wishing his words were enough to drown out theirs. The running water works a little better.

From what he gathers despite his half-hearted efforts not to, this is a common occurrence. This is Akira’s life — something of a glorified errand boy. Doing for others what they can’t do for themselves. It explains, at least, how he’s gathered all these people around himself.

The water scalds burning white until it transcends pain altogether and Goro tries not to think about Morgana and the water heater and Akira and the way he turns off the tap and says something about—

“Pardon?”

“I said I’m heading out in an hour or so.” Akira takes a bowl Goro set on the rack and starts wiping it dry with a towel, waiting for a response.

“Where to?”

And Akira stares at him, knowing full well that he was listening. This, too, is just petty.

“Women from a scavenger group came by the bar last night.” Akira puts the bowl under the counter and starts drying another. “Apparently there’s a factory just east of here that’s mostly untouched, full of unopened spray paint. I’m gonna go check it out — and do some stuff for Futaba on the way.”

“Spray paint,” Goro repeats. As useless here as the jewelry was in Chiyoda. “I’d say there’s a reason it’s still there, wouldn’t you?”

Akira tosses the towel onto the counter and leans against it, crossing his arms. “Are you gonna be here when I get back?”

Answers leaning in both directions nearly tear his tongue in half and Goro frowns down at his hands, hoping his hair is enough to hide his face.

“For what it’s worth,” Akira says, quietly — so softly that Goro almost doesn’t hear him, “I’d like it if you were.”

By some miracle, Goro’s jaw doesn’t lock. The smiles he manages is small but it feels passable enough. “Do you not want me to come with? You know I’m a good shot. We could settle this debt here and now.”

“Debt? That’s not—” Akira cuts himself off and turns his head to the side, sighing loudly. “I’ll be faster on my own. I don’t need help.”

“Then why are you asking? If you have no use for me then why am I here?”

Akira doesn’t answer right away. The others are joking around about something; Morgana’s trying to be more than he is, Takamaki and Kitagawa are laughing — while worlds away, ages pass and cities corrode, their vacancy contained in Akira’s eyes. Like he’s on a precipice, Goro stares into them and refuses to look away.

“You tell me.” Only when he speaks those words does Akira push away from the counter and uncross his arms. “If you don’t want to be here then go. I’m not begging.”

With that, he leaves. And with his hands burned raw, Goro doesn’t chase him.

 

* * *

 

One easy way to get blood out of fabric is salt water. Lemon juice, ammonia, vinegar… an old magazine Goro once found even mentioned meat tenderizer. But that’s all getting harder to come by these days, plus it generally works better when the blood is still wet.

Lala, by some miracle, has vinegar on hand — and quite a bit of information about the surrounding area. But the stain persists even after Goro’s arm is sore from scrubbing and as such, his hand is a little clumsy when he closes the apartment door behind himself that evening. Somewhere in the back of his head he thinks that scrubbing just set the stain but there was something therapeutic about it. Focusing so hard let him sort out his thoughts.

The clothes Akira let him borrow are inside, folded on the bed. Everything Goro left Chiyoda with is on him — plus the handgun from the couple, which he will undoubtedly have to trade for food or shelter. And the cigarette tin, which isn’t in his thoughts at all.

His footsteps resound as he descends the stairs.

The truth is that there is no debt to settle. Goro never asked for help so it’s not his fault that Akira stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. He will not sit around and be an unwanted burden ever again, nor will he be used.

One foot in front of the other. This is the same as every other time.

“Akechi?”

He stops in the middle of the street and turns to find Kitagawa standing in a shop’s entrance alcove. From the looks of it, it used to be a clothing shop; there are old mannequins in the window display, their clothes long since stolen out of necessity.

“I would have thought you went with Akira,” Kitagawa says. He gestures behind him with a hand splattered with turquoise. “I’m just getting some fresh air. You as well?”

“You could say that.” Goro hesitates, torn between manners and wanting to leave as soon as possible, and eventually chooses the idiotic option. “Are you painting?”

“Yes,” Kitagawa smiles. “Would you like to see?”

“Ah… well—”

“I usually don’t show my pieces before they’re complete,” Kitagawa continues, Goro’s reluctance flying right over his head, “but I’m trying to be more open. Seclusion only ever hurt my work. I would appreciate your opinion.”

“Unfortunately I don’t know much about art.”

“The untrained eye has value in its own way. One not looking at form still knows of content — it’s an invaluable kind of insight.”

“Hard to argue against that,” Goro says with a smile.

Out of options, he follows Kitagawa — who doesn’t go back into the clothing store, but heads for the stairwell beside it. They climb in silence while Goro reassures himself that this won’t take long; he had intended to leave before it got too dark and there is still time, but it’s running out.

The apartment Kitagawa leads him to is sparse and surprisingly bright, lit by industrial floor lamps then amplified by the white walls. The only sign that it’s more than a studio is a cracked leather couch under the window. Kitagawa slips off his shoes and jacket, revealing tattered old clothes covered in paint stains, then steps over the lamps’ criss-crossing wires to a canvas that hangs from a metal frame nearly as tall as the wall. A good portion of it is covered in an explosion of colours that, as far as Goro can tell, were just tossed on.

“I have never worked on this scale before,” Kitagawa says, bending to pick up his brush. At his feet sit several cans of paint. “We found this canvas in an old school not far from here and it felt almost like a sign.”

“I thought paint was in short supply. You don’t intend to use it sparingly?”

“It will be soon, which is all the more reason to use what I can before it expires. Not to mention paint is hardly in demand.”

“I imagine people are generally preoccupied with more… practical pursuits.”

“Undoubtedly.” Kitagawa speaks offhandedly, most of his attention on this short brushstrokes. A thick, rich red slowly spreads across the canvas. “But art has its place in our rebirth. Never doubt that.”

“You think so?”

In Chiyoda this might have made sense: wealth allowed for people to surround themselves with pointless comforts that made the wasteland outside seem that much further away. Out here there is no need for such things. This wasteland calls for survival.

But Akira is playing along with this too, risking his life just to get some paint — even after stealing jewelry just to melt it down.

“Can a rebirth without passion and beauty truly be called a rebirth? Why fight for a bleak future? What stirs you, what motivates you?” Kitagawa pauses and looks over his shoulder. “And what does your untrained eye tell you?”

Goro’s gaze moves from him to the painting and he stifles a sigh. The colours, he supposes, look good together. The painting itself is visually appealing; it’s easy to imagine it hanging in one of the better-off houses in Chiyoda.

Kitagawa returns to his canvas, already tired of waiting for an answer, and Goro finds his attention drawn to the way his hands work in controlled strokes. The block of red stops in a line so straight and severe it’s a wonder a ruler isn’t being used. Someone more educated might have something to say about technique. If he considers that then the chaos of the rest of the painting feels much more methodical.

“It—”

A knock at the door startles him nearly to the point of jumping, but it’s nothing compared to the dread that fills him when Kitagawa calls for the visitor to enter and Akira sticks his head inside.

Despite Goro bracing for the worst, Akira decides not to say anything and makes his way inside, depositing his rucksack on the floor. It’s larger than the one he had before and it’s stuffed to the brim with cans of spray paint. Whatever he says about the factory being a treasure trove, about maybe returning with a pack horse, it gets cut off when Goro heads for the door and slams it shut behind himself.

He only gets to the bottom of the stairs before his footsteps are joined by another’s.

“Goro.”

He forces himself to stop and turn around with a smile. “You got back here awfully fast. Were you that worried?”

“If I was,” Akira says, “it was obviously for nothing.”

He steps off the bottom stair and comes to a stop within arm’s distance. Visible breath dances before his lips in short bursts; he really must have hurried home. If he notices Goro is no longer wearing his clothes, neither says anything about it.

Goro sighs and glances down the street, watching a group of children playing in the square in front of the movie theater.

“I’m hungry.”

Akira blinks. “What?”

“I said I’m hungry. What about you?”

Akira stares at him, looking from eye to eye, and speaks slowly. “I guess I could eat.”

“Then let’s. Shall we?”

Akira stares some more. The dumbfounded look really does suit him.

Then he smiles.

“Yeah. I know a good curry recipe.”

 

* * *

 

The cigarette case gleams in the moonlight as Goro turns it over and over, fast enough that he can’t see his reflection. Smoke tangles with the aftertaste of curry and clashes with the winter air pouring through the open window, which Akira had insisted on instead of Goro standing out in the cold.

It’s just one smoke, he said, don’t get sick. It’s fine. It’s fine, it’s fine.

Right now he’s washing the dishes. Goro had offered help but no, he washed them after breakfast and fair is fair. If he really wants to, he can do it after breakfast tomorrow. Akira will handle dinner again.

“And the day after that?”

“That’s up to you.”

The cherry burns warm in the cool light until Goro snuffs it in the ashtray beside the record player. He shuts the window with a snap. Really, he should have gone outside; it’s a disgusting habit and the stench will linger — but Akira knows. There’s no point in hiding it. Akira already knows so much about him.

Or maybe that’s reason to hide in itself.

“I remember when I thought smoking was the most rebellious thing you did.” The bed shifts with Akira’s weight and his warmth presses against Goro’s arm. “Everybody’s favourite good-boy prince but I knew you smoke when you get stressed.”

“A far cry from killing my father,” Goro says.

Akira snorts, but it only gives way to an awkward silence.

With the craving satisfied all that’s left is the crawling anxiety; together they were awful but solving one doesn’t solve the other. Even if he is more focused, all he has to focus on is this restlessness, this feeling that something isn’t the way it should be. Or maybe that everything is the way it should be which means he only stands to lose it all.

“Could be that we didn’t know each other as well as we thought,” Goro murmurs. He leans forward and rests his chin on his hand, smiling over his shoulder. “You haven’t asked me _why_ I killed him. It’s kind of a big deal, you know.”

Akira shrugs, looking at his hands pressed between his knees.

“Figured you would tell me if you wanted me to know.”

And he scratches his cheek.

His words and actions are meek but his eyes are quite the tell. Like when the two of them were first reunited, Akira’s eyes are all-consuming. Hungry, watchful. He’s waiting like Goro is waiting. Neither wants to make the first move; they are _always_ waiting.

Goro straightens up and lifts his hand to place it over Akira’s eyes.

He asks, “Are you afraid of the answer?”

And Akira says, “I’m not afraid of anything.”

Nothing but parted lips under the hand and Goro leans forwards until they touch his. It’s not a kiss, not really, but when Goro whispers, “You’re such a liar,” that’s when it becomes one.

Gossamer stretches between the last time they did this and now. Their movements are tentative, afraid of breaking something valuable, but the gentlest snowfall will bend the strongest tree.

Even after he takes his hand away, Goro doesn’t look Akira in the eye. Like they’re teenagers again, he’s worried about how he tastes and if his breath is bad and when he makes a weird noise when Akira pushes him back against the bed, he can feel the heat rush to his cheeks and this is all so stupid.

But it’s easy. When the strength leaves Akira’s arms and he collapses on top of him, pressing his face into the crook of Goro’s neck, all Goro has to do is stare at the ceiling and stroke the back of his head. Their legs tangle and Akira slips an arm around his waist. They are nothing but warm bodies as long as they don’t look at each other.

Breath tickles his neck and Goro turns his head if only to dissipate the heat, but then all he sees is the outfit sitting on the foot of the bed. He’s still wearing his own clothes with the stain of his father’s blood pressed between them. There’s no way Akira didn’t notice — no way he doesn’t know how close Goro was to leaving.

Wind rattles the window. Unlike last night, it’s the only noise that proves there’s a world outside this room. There are no obnoxious neighbours, no heavy footsteps, no music. There is only Akira’s breathing, coming in slow enough to mean a peaceful sleep, and Goro’s heart beating a steady rhythm.

It’s suffocating.

“Akira,” Goro says, “get off.”

He can’t move. The weight’s pressing down on his lungs and he can’t take in air and his bones itch and it’s hot, too hot.

“ _Akira_.”

If Goro really wanted to then he could wake him, he knows, but he manages to slide out without disturbing his sleep. Selflessness or not, it’s impossible to know. The cold air rushes at him, all the worse for the disappearing warmth and the sweat that had started to cover his skin. Jaw clenched and back tensed to the point of aching, he still can’t look at Akira’s face.

He doesn’t taste curry or cigarettes anymore; he just tastes spit — his, Akira’s — but the scent lingers in the air. In the kitchen, the pot still sits on the stove. The towel used to dry the dishes hangs from a drawer handle. Some faint, pathetic mockery of domesticity.

This isn’t about the truth. Akira is every bit the killer Goro is.

This is about light scorching away the shadows until there is nowhere left to hide. This is about commitment and vulnerability from two people who know nothing of either. One boy who clawed his way to the top trying to connect with one who had everything taken from him — and maybe one day they’ll be able to but right now Goro grabs his coat, his holster, his cigarette case, and he prays Akira doesn’t wake up when he shuts the door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> [hey](https://twitter.com/evictionaries)


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